


The Comfort in Certainty

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [31]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Arguments, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Everyone Needs A Hug, M/M, Mental Health Discussions, Mental Health Issues, Misplaced Anger, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Relationship Discussions, Reminiscing, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Triggers, ptsd episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: "You were right when you said we need to talk," Steve says softly ... "Is there anything you want to say first?"... James can't stand the suspense. If it's going to happen, if he's going to do it, James wants that bandaid ripped off now."Isthisa breakup talk?" he says, and his wishes his voice would be stronger but he’s almost glad that it’s not.Steve takes a deep breath in through his nose
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, past Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter
Series: Honey Honey [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/943938
Comments: 145
Kudos: 453





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm celebrating today, so y'all get an update.
> 
> All your "Period-Typical" tags up there are to warn for the attitudes towards POC, women, and queer people in the 30s, mostly in reference to a couple of 1920/30/40s song themes Steve mentions. There is no actual language or behavior to warn for. Likewise, the canon-typical violence is all recollection. And there's no flashback in this one because they're in the present dealing with things from the past.
> 
> Thank you to A, my Braintwin, for the help with the title - I was having massive issues.

It starts off a good day. 

Steve’s humming in the kitchen when James comes down for breakfast, moving around with not a care in the world, apparently. He’s cooking, as always, and his bare feet make little to no noise on the hardwood floor. His shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his collar open a few buttons, James knows Steve has heard him. There’s no way a man like Steve doesn’t hear. 

“What’s for breakfast?” James says, and Steve glances back over his shoulder. 

“Uh,” he says, and his eyes slide left. 

Up until that point he was humming, so James suspects he had lyrics on his mind, not well-structured sentences. James comes over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder as Steve half-turns, kisses him briefly, just a morning-sweetheart-how’d-you-sleep sort of thing. James smiles too, because the answer is ‘very well thanks,’ and Steve beams.

“Full English,” he says. 

“I knew a kid in school we called ‘English,’ ” James says.

“Mm, I got called ‘Brooklyn’ out in the field a few times, I kinda like it, it’s nice if you’re proud’a where you’re from, you know?”

James smiles wider and then nods.

“Sounds good,” he says, and Steve bobs his eyebrows.

“Good,” he answers, like a dork, and James laughs and goes to take a seat at the table. 

Steve starts humming again. Steve’s got a voice made for crooning, and sings way down the register in a way that rumbles through James’ bones. 

Breakfast will evidently be a while, and so James watches Steve move from counter to counter like he hasn’t a care in the world, and waits until the food is done. 

Things are going really well, in fact, until ‘Chatanooga Choo Choo,’ when he comes to an abrupt halt.

 _“Pardon me buh-_ oh, shit wait,” and then he turns around to look at James. “I never figured.”

James frowns at him

“What?” he says, and Steve plants his hands on his hips, sighs heavily.

“Uh,” he says, and then he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Pardon me boy ain’t _boys._ ”

James blinks at him.

“What?” he says, halfway to a laugh, but Steve nods as he winces.

“Yeah, it…didn’t mean boys, the shoeshines weren’t boys.”

James thinks he understands.

“It’s like ‘hey man,’ right?” he says. “I read about it once - people used to call men of color ‘boy’ no matter how old they were, and so MOC started calling each other ‘man’ as a sign of respect to each other. Thats’ why people say like ‘hey, man’ now.” 

Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says, and then he snaps his fingers. “Goddamn it, I liked that one.”

James cocks his head.

“I mean,” he says. “There was a lot of that, huh?”

“Sure was,” Steve answers. “Either that or. Ugh, God, shit like…y’know,” he waves a hand. “The old _’sure I cheated but don’t get upset,’ ‘he hits me but he’s cute,'_ all that shit.”

James wrinkles his nose. 

“Oh,” he says, and Steve nods, sighs again and goes back to what he was doing. 

“Yeah. Real shame sometimes, our shit was catchy.”

James snorts a laugh.

“You can still hum ‘em, right?” 

Steve chuckles and goes back to the bacon. 

“Sure, sure,” he says. 

But that’s the end of it for now - Steve’s probably going through his mental catalog while he turns the sausages over. By the time he dishes up for breakfast, though, he seems happy enough, moving with the ease he so often shows, a dancer’s gait and an open expression.

“Don’t burn your mouth, the mushrooms are really hot,” he says as he puts James’ plate down, and James is struck in moments like these by how much he really loves Steve. 

They’re just eating breakfast, but they’re eating breakfast Steve made, in their place, at their table, together. It’s a good day.

At least, that’s how it starts.

~

After breakfast, Steve checks his watch. He does it a lot, James can’t blame him - he likes to know what’s going on, likes to know what’s going on with his day. James checks his twitter like eight times an hour, Steve checks his watch a lot, even though he always intuitively knows the rough time of day anyway.

“Wanna help me with the dishes, babe?” he says, short again, the Brooklyn, like ‘beb,’ and James laughs. 

“Do I _want_ to?” he says. “I don’t know, what do I get out of it?”

Steve looks at him, just _looks_ at him. 

“I _believe,”_ he says, “you got _breakfast.”_

James gets up and saunters over - saunters on purpose because why wouldn’t he when he can make Steve make the face he’s making now that James is sauntering.

“See something you like?” James asks, and Steve reaches out and draws him close - he uses the ‘come here, you’ face but he moves slowly, kidding, wrapping James in his massive arms, not-quite crushing James to his massive chest.

“Yes,” Steve says, because it really is that simple, isn’t it? 

“Good,” James says, but Steve’s leaning down to him, and James can’t help it - he wants his kiss. “Me too.”

Steve nods, very, very close.

“Good,” he murmurs, and then Steve’s kissing him. 

Sometimes Steve kisses him with little pecks, _kiss, kiss, kiss,_ when he’s trying to make him laugh or squirm, sometimes Steve kisses him slow and languid like they’ve got all day and could sink into each other, and sometimes Steve kisses him like this - all James can really think of is that Steve kisses James like James doesn’t need his living daylights. 

“Nagh,” James says when Steve pulls back, and he’s glad for Steve’s arms holding him up and Steve’s chest being there to lean on because whoa.

Steve just smiles, Steve’s definitely the smug one this time. Which, really, is fair, wow.

“Dishes?” he says, like he hasn’t just tried to empty James’ head of everything except his own name, and been at least seventy percent successful.

“Uh,” James answers. “And then-”

“Oh of course,” Steve says, calm and pleased. “Anything you want, sweetheart.”

~

To his credit, Steve offers after the dishes. The only reason James turns him down is because it was a _lot_ of breakfast, and it has yet to settle. 

“I want you to show me who’s boss and you can’t do that if I throw up so,” he shrugs, and Steve shakes his head and wraps his arm around James’ shoulders where they’re sitting on the couch. 

“A’right,” he says. “I’d say ‘you’re the boss,’ but then I’d have to wear a mirror when we fuck to show you-”

James laughs because he can’t help it.

“God,” he says. “You’re such a dork.”

“Gee whiz mister,” Steve answers, and _kiss, kiss, kisses_ him without letting go so James has to crunch his head down against his shoulders so as not to completely crack up. “If I’m a dork, you’re the dork who’s dating me.”

“Uncle, _uncle!”_ James says, pushing at him a little. 

Steve just grabs him with both hands, shoves him sideways so they both tip over on the couch.

“Uncle?” he says. “Who’s Uncle? Huh? Uncle who, you seein’ somebody else, huh, you foolin’ around?” James is laughing too hard to answer, and keeps right on going, until Steve starts pressing softer kisses to his skin, starts following James’ jaw, the pulse in his throat.

Pretty soon they’re just lying on the couch together, with Steve over him, holding him close. 

“I love you,” he says, smiling, his voice soft like he’s sharing a secret. “I love you, darling.”

James beams back at him. Sometimes he finds it hard to believe how lucky he is.

“I love you too,” he says. “I love you too.”

~

“I wondered what, if anything, you want to do for Valentine’s,” Steve says later, when they’re snuggled together in the reading section, the fire going strong and warming James’ legs more than his face. “I never really hated it, I always jut kind of ignored it if I didn’t have nobody. You know? But if you’d like to do something this year, with me, we can.” James blinks at him. “Just ‘cause I’m on duty the weekend of, but I’m free the weekends either side.”

James frowns this time, aw.

“What dates?” he says, and Steve pulls a face.

“Twelfth to the nineteenth,” he answers. “And then…” James sees his eyes move as he thinks about it, watches him actually wince. “Uh, then I’m also on duty over the eleventh.”

“Of March,” James says, “my birthday?” 

Steve nods, rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can try and get the day off from the, I mean, I could ask Sa-”

“No,” James says, frowning as he waves a hand, “no, no, don’t worry about it, God, you’ll be around, right?”

Steve tilts his head to the side and back.

“Long as nothing happens,” he says.

“Well then who cares?” James answers. “We can just be in the tower, I don’t mind.”

Steve is chewing his lip, though, unsure.

“We can do something special?” he offers, and James rolls his eyes.

“Uh, duh,” he says, “I expect like an eight-course meal and the inability to walk the following day.” Steve huffs a laugh through his nose. “And please don’t actually make me an eight-course meal.”

Steve nods, and looks around the place. 

“You want friends up?” he says. “Pull your sister in?”

“I’ll think about it,” James says, because he does, but he’s also well-aware that people don’t always leave when you want them to, especially when the reason you want them to leave is so you can get a good dicking-down. 

“And if you wanted to make a long weekend of it, providing I’m here,” Steve says, and then frowns, “or even if I’m not, you know what I mean, your birthday’s a Thursday this year, you could take the Friday.”

“I could,” James says. “You’re,” and then he recalculates, “if you’re on duty on the Thursday, that means you’re on duty on the Friday, right? But not the Saturday, Sunday?”

“That’s right,” Steve answers. “Long weekend, long as nothing happens.”

“Sounds good,” James says, snuggles a little closer to get his head against Steve. 

It’s not cold, but the weather’s cold and the thought of it is enough to warrant snuggling. Steve takes the hint, puts one massive hand on the back of James’ head and holds him close. 

“God you’re warm,” James says, but he’s rubbing his cheek against Steve’s chest as he says it, and he slings his leg over Steve’s for good measure which - okay, bad idea, opening his legs means cold inner thighs - but Steve turns towards him and pulls him close, hitches him closer once they’re a little more entangled. 

“That better, baby?” he murmurs and, yeah, of course it is.

“Mhm,” James answers. “Much better.”

“So I don’t know if there’s something you really want to do for Valentine’s - I was thinking I’d just wine and dine you, we can go out walking if you want, my plans are smalltime unless you wanted to go somewhere.”

“Nah, Seems like…the best thing. You know? We’re not leaving, so you don’t have to…like, it wouldn’t be somewhere you’d have to like buy out or clear or anything.”

“Mmh,” Steve nods, “unless you want me to fly you somewhere exotic for the weekend. Have a think about it.”

James laughs.

“I don’t wanna inconvenience your pilot.”

Steve pauses, and James lifts his head and frowns at him.

“Stark jets,” Steve clarifies.

“You,” James says. “Don’t need a pilot?”

“Firstly,” Steve says, holding up a finger, “no, the jet’ll fly itself, I just have to pre-log a flight path and register it with New York ATC, and second,” he holds up another, “I _am_ a pilot. I can fly anything you put in front of me.”

“You’re assuming I trust you not to crash if-” and then he almost swallows his tongue. _“Fuck, no! That’s not what I meant-!”_

Steve’s eyes are wide and his mouth is open and James thinks for a moment he must be imagining ice and radios and the Red Skull and Hydra and-

Steve laughs so loudly that James flinches, and then he reaches out blindly - because his eyes are shut as he tips sideways - and grabs James’ arm. 

“Oh my _God_ , you sure stuck your foot in _that_ one!” he cackles.

James is mortified despite Steve’s demeanor - wow, James, try telling the world’s most famous noble-sacrifice-by-plane-crash survivor you don’t trust his flying skills. It’d be funny if he’d said it to Amy - maybe - but James sure as fuck doesn’t find it funny telling Steve. 

“I am so sorry,” he says, face burning.

Steve, meanwhile, can’t get a breath.

“Ha- _hoo_ boy!” he crows, and James just covers his face with his hands. 

“I hate you,” he says, and Steve, who’s laughing so hard now he’s not making any noise, just nods and slaps the couch.

***

James ends up taking a nap - completely involuntarily - because that’s what lazy days and too much food will do to a person. He dreams about nothing he can remember, and wakes to find Steve slumped down next to him so they’re both lying on the couch, but Steve's on the other side of him, hemming him in, keeping out the draft. He does vaguely remember being moved, but it’s still kind of amazing to him that Steve can just pick him up and put him down somewhere else. Okay, James is no heavyweight, but there’s nobody else he knows who can manage it.

“Hmm,” he says, and Steve shifts next to him.

James has a moment to worry that maybe Steve was sleeping too, but then Steve’s pulling a book down out of the way, where, arms wrapped around James, he must have been reading it over James’ shoulder. James doesn’t know where he got it, but if he can lift James and move him around, chances are pretty good he can grab a book on the way.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Steve says softly, and he checks his page before he puts the book down, rolls back to brush James’ hair out of his eyes. “You feel like wakin’ up?”

James squints at him and then yawns, brings a hand up to cover his mouth. Steve kisses his knuckles. 

“Yeah,” James says, and then he lifts his head when Steve goes to kiss his jaw instead. “I’m awake.”

“Hmm, good,” Steve rumbles, hand smoothing down James’ spine. “Missed you.”

James smiles like an idiot, feels it break out across his face as he ducks his head.

“God,” he laughs, but Steve nuzzles closer.

“Mmm, missed you, missed you,” he says, not quite nipping at James with his teeth, but it’s fast little movements and James definitely _feels_ teeth, and laughs until Steve slows down and searches James’ face with his eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi,” James says, and he says it soft. 

Steve smiles softly, goes back to brushing James’ hair back from his face for a moment or two, until James realizes Steve’s just stroking his face and his hair.

“You okay?” James says, but he’s still smiling.

“Mhm,” Steve says, nodding a little. “I’m good. I’m okay, you okay?”

“Yeah?” James says. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Steve huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Okay,” and his smile widens.

“What?” James says. “What’s goin’ on?”

But Steve only shakes his head.

“Nothin’,” he says. “Just…Hi.”

James chuckles, a little bemused.

“Hi,” he says slowly.

“Don’t mind me,” Steve says. “Just lookin’ atcha. It’s nice, you know? I like this. I like being. Close to you just ‘cause I can. Plus you’re cute when you’re droolin’.”

James bats at him with a hand.

“I wasn’t drooling!” he says, halfway to mortified - he wasn’t was he? 

But Steve laughs.

“No, honey,” he says. “No.”

“You makin’ fun’a me?” James says, sticks his bottom lip out in a pout.

Steve laughs a little louder.

“No,” he says. “Makin’ fun of you, no, don’t mind me. I’m just. Y’know.”

Happy, James thinks. They’re happy. 

“It ain’t fair, y’know,” James tells him. “You got all this stuff about me, what do I got about you? Commander perfect-”

“Oho,” Steve says, eyebrows raising. “Oho, kid, ho, no, nono, perfect? No, I don’t think so.”

“Pft,” James answers, and he’s kidding, but he’s also fishing. “You cook, you clean, you save the world, you look _great_ in a tux and you’re phenomenal in bed, am I missing something?” 

“I’m reckless, I’m a dork, I’m terrible at dancing-”

“Not detriments, just adorable,” James says. “Except for reckless, and that’s not true, it’s just selflessness, which is _another_ thing-”

“-and I wasn’t always great in bed.”

“Nobody was _always_ great in bed,” James answers. “And I believe I said phenomenal.”

“Yeah well,” Steve tells him, “phenomenal is…I mean, thanks, sure, whatever-” James laughs “-but we all had to start somewhere.”

James bites his lip. This is his chance, really, and though he doesn’t doubt that Steve sees right through him, half the fun is pretending.

“Oh?” he says. “Surely not?”

And Steve’s smile is a little rueful this time, he rolls his eyes as he nods.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Go ahead, ask.”

“Got any stories?” James says instantly, and Steve wets his lips as he closes his eyes, but he can’t hide his smile. 

“I got plenty,” he says. “How about you?”

“Sure,” James says, “dented the wall once going too hard, stubbed my toe another time.”

Steve just looks at him, does a little more searching of James’ face. And then he draws a deep breath.

“Aright,” he says. “Fine. You want a story? I’ll give you a story - how ‘bout the dumbest thing I ever fuckin’ did-”

“Absolutely,” James says, and Steve rubs a hand over his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “A’right.”

And he uncurls them a little. The couch is huge, of course, so there’s plenty of room for both of them, and Steve gets mainly onto his back, narrowing his eyes as his gaze shifts. James can see him thinking about it, maybe playing it over in his head, maybe just reliving it for himself for a moment, and he’s about to say Steve doesn’t have to tell him if he doesn’t want to, when Steve nods. James pushes himself up onto his elbow so he can look at Steve properly, drapes his other arm over Steve’s chest so he's mainly on his stomach on top of him.

"Okay so me and Buck are both workin'," Steve says, grammar defenestrated, and he starts looking at the ceiling, wiggling his fingers as he talks, "he's workin' picking up jobs where he can, I'm tryin'a get through a week without gettin' sick and burning what cash we got - I mean, we're both workin' but he's the one down the docks so, he's the one makin' the dough. So we been together two, three months by this point, happy as clams the two of us, but we ain't seeing much of each other and it's startin' to really get to us."

James stares at him, rapt, astounded by the boy he becomes when he talks about Bucky Barnes, unable to hide his smile about the different time he can see held inside of Steve. It's not that Steve is pretending to be someone else the rest of the time, just that the time seems to flow through him when he thinks of what was. He's a different man now, that's certain, but the parts of the whole that made him are still present, even though some of them lie deeper than others. 

"Now, a'most every time he's free, I ain't, and the same's vice versa, an' if we manage windin' up in the same place at the same time, we're both out like lights 'fore we can get any kind of lovin' going, so we're both a little lonesome even though we're sharing the same piece of shit mattress-" gone are the measured sentences and careful considerations - Steve talks about Bucky and Brooklyn like he doesn't need to breathe "-an' you know I was a sick kid, thin and crooked and flat feet and all of that, I got asthma - everybody knows about the asthma - but I also got pernicious anaemia. That shit ain't fun at the best of times, that was raw liver and prayin' for me, on the daily, but we - I mean, like most of everybody - we weren't exactly well fed, you know? An' malnutrition can do a lotta things to a fella, but it does a lot more things to a kid who's already got a list of problems longer than the Brooklyn bridge, _so_ , there's me an' there's him, an' I can't always get it up, no big deal-"

James nods because it feels like he should - and because he remembers. Steve told him way, way back when he'd been injured after Nova Scotia that he didn't need to get it up to have a good time.

"-and that's fine," Steve shrugs, "we're okay with that, he's okay with a ton'a shit about how broke my body is, it's fine - it don't mean I ain't interested, just means my body can't prove it. I like having him in me, I'm good with my hands, he's sweet with his mouth, we make it good regardless -" he throws out one hand " - whatever, so there's this one night, we've had a good meal for once in our goddamn lives, it's been a good day at work for the both of us, the weather ain't too hot or too cold and I'm breathin' easy for the first time in a long time. We're both in the place and and I ain't sick, and we're both thinking the same thing, as you would-"

James nods again - you're damn right he would.

"-so he pulls the blinds and we go to bed and now we're in bed together, having a good time, he's bein' real sweet to me as always and I'm doing what I can, an' we're kissin' and and pettin' and all'a that stuff, and we realise," he looks at James, then, smug, instead of staring at the ceiling while he pulls up the memory, "I'm gonna be able to star in this evening's performance, if you take my meanin'. And we've been fooling long enough he's ready already, what with the vaseline and all, so I'm all, 'hey, Buck, look a' _this,_ ' and we're both lookin' at my Johnson, pleased as punch-" James snorts a laugh "- an' he says to me, 'well well get to it,' like 'oh yeah, right!' an' you don't gotta ask me twice, so there I am in the middle'a this," he cranes his neck, tips his head back, his eyes half closed so he can get really into it, "-I'm half _delirious_ with it, an' I'm tellin' him he's beautiful, he feels good, I love 'im, all'a that, the good stuff, y'know, so I'm doin' what I can considering it's me, and he's having to to help hold me up in the first place, got his hands on my shoulders 'cause my arms is weak, and he's is tellin' me how good I feel right back 'cause he always was a sweetheart, an' I'm right on the edge, an' I mean _right_ on the edge, an' - remember I've been looking forward to this for a long time, I've been waiting for this for weeks, we both have -"

James nods - Steve's been talking a mile a minute since he started but he's gearing up for the punchline, James can hear it in his voice, see the glee in his eyes.

"- I'm right there, he's right with me, and it feels so good, I'm so close, and I remember thinkin', 'man this must be gonna be a good one, the whole world's movin'…"

And then Steve stops, and he takes a deep breath and lets it out very slowly. 

"Well it turns out," he says, just as slowly, "if you're passin' out out, the whole world really is movin' - it's coming up to meet you pretty fuckin’ fast."

James laughs.

"Now I'm sure I don't gotta tell you," Steve says, while James tries to rein himself in a little, "how lucky I was was to be on top'a somebody who knew what I look like when I come an' knew what I look like when I pass out out and and still had enough brain cells halfway through gettin' it to figure it out - so there's me," and James forces his eyes open.

Steve's got his hand at forty-five degrees, shows James a couple of thrusts with it.

"- almost, _almost_ -" he flops his hand down "- blammo -" 

James wheezes with laughter this time.

"And I come to on my back with 'im over me, face the picture of absolute terror - I came, mind you, it counts -"

James snorts, covers his mouth with his hand.

"He's sayin' 'Stevie Stevie,' askin' if I hear him, if it's my heart, my lungs, whatever, but for me, I'm swimmin' back up outta pitch black feelin' pretty damned nice, y'know, ears ringin', my head's full'a cotton and I'm lyin' on a bed, satisfied, starin' up at this peach, this _angel,_ this _absolute dime,_ first love of my life - an' the first words outta my idiot mouth are, 'how was it for you?' I mean -"

James laughs so hard it hurts his spine to be lying on his stomach, he has to roll onto his side.

"Ha- _'How was',"_ he says, but that's as far as he gets. 

"Fuckin' Casanova over here," Steve reinforces, and James sucks in as much air as he can although it's not much. "But I tell you what," and James holds his breath, looks at Steve, waiting. "Picture of terror turns into this-" he gives James possibly the flattest expression James has ever seen "-and he says…" Steve sits up, curls his body forward with a clink of metal as he tags shift inside his shirt, leans down over James and looks disapproving. " 'Heavy.' "

James guffaws, and he spots Steve's huge grin before his eyes squeeze shut - evidently this is the reaction he's looking for. James can picture it, too - or, at least, he thinks he can. There are only a few pictures of Steve before the serum but James has a pretty good handle on what he looks like when he comes.

When he manages to calm down a little, Steve's still leaning over him, and he's stroking James' hair with the backs of his fingers. His smile is warm and his eyes are half closed when James can manage to open his eyes to look, and he bobs his eyebrows.

"Never let anyone tell you I'm not smooth," he says, and James huffs another laugh. 

He lifts his hands, gets them up the back of Steve's shirt.

"I bet you were cute as fuck," James tells him and Steve's eyebrows go up instantly.

 _"Were?"_ he says, mock offended. 

"Yeah," James nods. " 'Stead'a' drop-dead gorgeous."

"I resent the implication I haven't always been drop-dead gorgeous," Steve answers, and James rubs his back a little with his palms. 

"How about I resent the implication that you believe he told you you feel good just 'cause he was tryin' to be nice, instead'a 'cause he loved you and you felt good?"

Steve frowns.

"James," he says, but James shakes his head.

"Am I wrong?" 

Steve searches his face for a long few moments, sighs through his nose. 

"No," he says. "I yield."

James nods.

"Good," he says, and he takes his hands out of Steve's shirt to grab his head instead, pulls him down for a kiss. "Hmm." And then Steve pulls away. "Still conscious?"

Steve narrows his eyes and jabs him in the side in retaliation, and then says,

"Watch it, kid, or I’ll tell you about the time I was in his lap and he went to smack my ass and hit himself in the nuts instead."

James laughs so loudly he’d be worried about Steve’s eardrums if he didn’t have serum. Steve winces anyway. But the chain from Steve’s tags hangs loose at his collar where the fabric of his shirt is loose, and James finds himself reaching out for it before he thinks not to.

Steve lets him do it, too - allows him to brush his fingertips against the chain, just watches James’ face. When James puts his hand back down, Steve reaches into his own shirt and takes out the tags, holds them up between them. 

“You can,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

James frowns a little, chews his lower lip for a second. Part of him’s worried about it - whati f he damages them? - even though part of him knows the tags have been through a war, a plane crash, and a whole lot else besides and are still perfectly good tags. 

So, carefully, he takes them. Examines them. On one of the tags, stamped into the metal, are the words that comprise Steve’s name, original rank, the numbers of his serial number, his blood type, his religion. The ring James bought for him rests against the metal, too - warm from the heat of Steve’s body. And the other tag is Bucky Barnes’ tag. His name, rank, serial number, blood type, religion. 

James wonders how many people in the world alive today know Bucky Barnes’ blood type.

~

“Why’s it got a bit cut out?” James says, and Steve frowns, tucks his chin down to look.

“What, my tags?” he says, because it’s true - his tags have a v-shaped notch cut out, opposite the hole for the chain to run through.

James nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Isn’t it somethin’ like you put it in your teeth-”

“No!” Steve says, a little more forcefully than he intended, but he hates that myth. “No, Jesus, sorry.” He laughs. “I know they’re meant to be dead at the time but that one always gave me the willies, it’s, no, it’s- it was a- The medical staff had this thing. Looked like a gun and you’d put- well, _they’d_ put your tag in it and then-”

He makes the trigger pulling motion with the hand he’s not leaning on.

“Shoot your tag across the ward, got it,” James says, and Steve scoffs.

“Right,” he says. “But no, it was…carbon paper. So they could just-” he makes the same motion again “-and it’d stamp out the info on your form, save ‘em writin’ it all out.”

James frowns. 

“So that thing about the teeth-”

“Not true. Myth. Really creepy myth, gives me toothache just thinkin’ about it. No, the notch’d line the up right in the, uh. Gadget. Addressograph, it was called, and you’d-”

“Oh?” James’ eyes crinkle at the corners, and he chuckles. “Addressograph?”

Steve gives him a look.

“A’right,” he says. “Spit it out.” 

James snuggles a little closer, still grinning.

“Aw, nothin’,” he says, “I just like it. ‘Addressograph.’ You know? It’s a real nice kinda thirties name.”

“It was the forties,” Steve retaliates. “And I like it. Now it’d be a SmartStamper or some shit, and it’d fuckin’…” he casts about mentally. “I don’t know, tell you the weather or somethin’.”

James rolls his shoulders seductively.

“Oooh,” he purrs, “now tell me to get off your lawn.”

“Pft,” Steve answers, and James laughs. “Nah, listen, one in your shoe, one on your chain. Take one, leave one, and a notch for the med staff.”

James nods slowly, presses a little closer. But his gaze turns a little distant.

“I don’t really wanna know this,” he says, “but that stamper…you don’t mean there were too many _patients_ to write everything down. Do you?”

Steve’s brain slides backwards a little bit and he pulls it back, feels his smile fade.

“No,” he says, gentle as he can. “Not always.”

James sighs, nods slowly. He puts his fingers near the metal, rubs the chain instead, and Steve can see the change in him. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” he says

“Just thinkin’,” James answers, and runs his finger over the edge of the ring he gave to Steve where it sits on the chain, over Steve's tag but not Bucky's though he's definitely looking at it. “One for each of us.”

“That’s right, baby,” Steve says softly, lifts James’ other hand to his mouth and kisses it. “One for each of us.”

“You wear them all together,” he says, and Steve nods, slow.

“That’s right,” he says again. “I didn’t need one’a mine sendin’ home. Only person’d need to know was Buck.”

James narrows his eyes a little, thinking about it.

“He gave you one’a his?” he murmurs, and Steve sighs through his nose, closes his eyes. “Even once…” and he doesn’t say it. Even once he pushed you away. “Even once you were in Europe?” James says instead.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Even then, yeah.”

When he opens his eyes again, James wets his lips, his eyes shining.

“Then,” he says, swallows hard, and turns his head a little. “Steve, he _must’ve_ …” but he trails off, unsure. 

He wants to comfort, Steve can see it, but he doesn’t touch Bucky’s tag, he isn’t sure.

Steve is.

Steve looks at his tags, and thinks of every smile Bucky ever flashed him in their little tenement, every night they spent in each others’ beds, every whispered word and desperate touch, and every time Bucky looked at him, stony and hurting, over campfires and tables and bars. Bucky, even after Brooklyn, even after capture and torture, even though he had family at home who’d want his tags where Steve had nobody but Bucky…

And, for a long time, Steve hadn’t been sure. Couldn’t be. Tired and fraught and then lost and alone, he played the words over and over in his mind for years, _can’t love the man the serum made you_ and it had hurt, oh, it had hurt. But Steve hears what James wants to say - _then he must have loved you_. Even after he said that he couldn’t.

Steve learned, he healed, he grew. And he looks at his tags, and he looks at James, and he has to nod because, for a long few seconds, it’s hard to speak. And then he tells James what, if he’s honest with himself, he’s always really known.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “He did.”

***

Steve gets up to make them both spiced apple juice. He also gets up to get a little space, some conversations are too intense for lazy afternoons, although he doesn’t begrudge James the information.

Something he always knew, and always said, too, was that nobody could ever replace Bucky. It’s stupid to want a replacement for somebody - you fall in love with someone because they’re who they are, and everybody’s unique. Sure there are types, there are sorts, but no two people are truly the same, and that means you can never take somebody’s place. So he knew, as soon as he lost Bucky, not when his hands closed on empty air but after, when he came to realize it was real and couldn't be undone, that nobody would ever replace Bucky Barnes.

He adored Peggy, would have loved her for the rest of their lives. In a way, it’s still true - when she died in ‘16, he loved her and she loved him. Not in the same way as before, perhaps, but love all the same. And although this year will be his eleventh without her, he loves her still. 

The thought of a replacement for either of them was laughable.

The few disastrous relationships he’d had in this century before James - a few first-date kind of short-term ones, and then the one long-term - wouldn’t have been replacements even if they’d worked out. Love couldn’t work like that. And of those relationships, the things he’d loved about those people can’t be forced onto others.

Love _doesn’t_ work like that.

Now, now he’s in love with James. He loves James. Will love James for as long as James lets him. For the rest of their lives if he's permitted and, probably, in certain ways for the rest of his own life even if the worst should happen between them.

But it’s hard. If nobody can replace someone you’ve lost, it means nobody can fill out those gaps they left in your heart, either. And while Steve would never even if he could, sometimes those empty places ache. 

He puts his hand against his sternum and rubs for a moment. It’s hard to think of the opportunities he lost through his own fault and the fault of others. He couldn’t have stopped the war, the serum was necessary, he’d begged Bucky to go home and Bucky had stayed, irony of ironies. But he knew, too, that he could have persisted in other places. He could have kissed Bucky sooner, he could have talked about the future with Peggy, he could have taken a long, hard look at himself and made decisions based on logic instead of self-denial. 

But he didn’t. And for all that those decisions and indecisions, those happenstances and circumstances, have brought him here, they’re hard to think of just the same. He tries not to live in the past, but even with all that he has to be happy for, he still _misses_ the people he misses.

Sometimes he’s aware of his age, and of the fact that he’s spent fifteen years in the future. When he was fifteen years _old,_ he was trying to find work, his mother ailing. He was poor and tired and cold and anemic. Sometimes he’s aware that he was twenty-six when he crashed, that he’s been in the future for over a decade, that, when he turns fifty-three, he’ll have been in the future for longer than he was in his own time.

Will it count as his own time if he’s spent more time in the future? Does it count as home when you haven’t seen it for so long?

“James,” he says, throat tight, and he hears James move on the couch.

“Yeah?” James says quietly, from way across the room.

“Honey, I’m spiraling,” he says, and it’s weird to hear himself say the words - that’s partially how he knows it’s true but it’s also weird to hear his voice acknowledge it, feels stupid that he can acknowledge it but can't stop it, “can you-” James is already coming over to him, he can hear the footsteps “-come over here with me a second?”

James appears by his side, one hand against his back, and he leans forward so he can look up at Steve’s face. Steve doesn’t look at him. 

“What do you want me to do?” James says, and Steve shakes his head - thats a good question, to which he doesn’t have a good answer. 

“I’m not sure,” he says, “can you just get close and talk to me, baby? Talk to me.”

James’ hand slides down Steve’s spine, out toward his other side so he can get his arm around Steve’s waist. 

“Sure,” he says, and he’s nodding, Steve can see him out the corner of his eye. “Yeah, okay. What you want me to talk about?”

His voice is gentle, concerned, and Steve is trying to pull himself out of what he’s thinking.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Anything. Tell me anything, talk to me, I don’t…It doesn’t matter.”

“I,” James says. “You, so, okay so, ~~super~~ **human** , right, you know that’s based on you guys?”

“Ahuh,” Steve says.

He tries not to miss them, all of them, he didn’t miss them this morning, didn’t miss them twenty minutes ago, except he misses them all, all the time. 

“Right, well, firstly, so the theme tune’s based on this really cool…”

Steve lets James’ voice wash over him. He’s relieved James isn’t just going for the storyline, he’s not sure he could listen to how TV networks think of his life, but the trivia?

“..and then Lea, who plays- plays, like, Ethan, right, he’s a children’s author too in his spare time, how about that? Does a really good American accent for a British guy-”

Steve turns towards him and puts his arms around James. James keeps on talking and Steve doesn’t really listen to the words - they go in, of course, that’s one of the serum’s advantages. Chances are he’ll be able to remember a lot of this information anyway. But it helps to have James’ voice in is ear, humming through his sternum.

“…and the guy who plays Lucky is like a really good musician as well, he’s been in a ton of stuff…”

Steve opens his eyes, looks around. He has a refrigerator and an oven, he has a table and chairs, there are couches, bookcases, a fireplace, the treadmill, the television. There are fake plants and lights everywhere, the balcony is painted white. It helps a little. He lifts his hand and strokes James’ hair. It’s soft and thick and that’s not so helpful, so he strokes the fabric over James’ back instead - polycotton, that’s modern enough to anchor him a little. His eyes spill over anyway and his head jerks back out of instinct like it’s something he can get away from despite the two little dark circles on James’ shoulder. He pulls back enough to swipe over his eyes with his fingertips, doing what he thinks is a fair job of disguising it as a pinch of the bridge of his nose, but James isn’t fooled. Has anyone ever been, really?

“Steve,” James says, and he says it like ‘I’m sorry’ so Steve shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he says, and James goes to say something else but Steve gets there first. “No, I,” he says, and then he laughs wetly. _“I’m_ not fine but that’s okay.” He sniffs. “Okay? ‘S just how it is sometimes. And that's fine.”

James ducks his head a little get a better view of Steve’s face, reaches up pushes the hair back off his forehead, and Steve tries to smile but he can feel that his face isn’t complying. His eyes are full, his vision blurry, and his mouth feels pinched instead of stretched. 

“I’m sorry,” James says, not an apology but a condolence. 

Steve tries to chuckle but it doesn’t come out that way, so James puts his arms around him again, and puts his hand on the back of Steve’s head while Steve stands still and breathes, and takes the time he needs.

***

Steve’s going to make Italian sausage pasta for lunch because it’s warm and rich and it’ll fill them up nicely on an afternoon like this. Comfort food, he says, because he needs it. James can understand that, he can sympathize. He asks if Steve wants help, but Steve doesn’t, and James is initially a little bothered by it - Steve almost always finds him something to do, just so that they can do these things together. But he also knows what its like when you’re trying to process and all you’re getting is white noise, so he leaves it be and tries to ignore the anxiety that threatens to bubble up about it.

So instead James, in the meantime, is trying to figure out the app for the Christmas lights. It’s pretty simple but it’ll give him something to do that isn’t asking Steve questions, and it’ll give Steve the time and space to do something that doesn’t involve thinking about answers. 

Cooking is easy, Steve says. Follow steps, get results. You can improvise if you want to, but following everything to the letter turns out nice enough, and Italian sausage pasta has worked out pretty well for him so far. 

So Steve potters in the kitchen and James frowns at the app and its many, many choices - one of them is called “shooting star” and would send light fast along the length of the string three repetitions at a time - red, red, red, orange, orange, orange - all the way through the spectrum, towards Steve in the kitchen.

One of them is called “barber shop” and would be two white, two cobalt, two white and two red repeating down the line from the balcony to the reading section towards James. One of them’s a shifting rainbow, one of them is warm white that twinkles, one of them is static color. He picks shooting star, because it’s first, and looks up.

Nothing happens. 

Ha, oh - he’s not connected to the lights’ network. 

He pulls down his notifications and switches networks, waits for the connection to establish, and then the lights are so bright the color fills the room. 

Purple, purple, purple, pink, pink, pink, red -

It’s pretty, he wonders if he can change the color, Steve said he should be able to. He opens up the little “modify” section and there’s a colors section-

-yellow, yellow, green, green, green-

-and James gets goosebumps, goes cold, feels the hair stand up on the back of his neck because he knows instantly what’s coming, he knows instantly what he’s done and it’s too late, there’s nothing he can do about it because the app buffers for too long but he flings out a hand anyway-

-blue-

-he sees the light travel, from one side of the conversion to the other, opens his mouth to warn Steve as he tries to get to Steve-

“Steve!” 

-but that’s worse, it’s so much worse, and he only realizes once he’s shouted Steve’s name and Steve has turned and then there it is, full Technicolor slow motion-

-blue-

-Steve’s eyes go wide and he flinches back so hard he overbalances, staggers backwards as he bends at the waist like he’s been punched in the stomach, shoulders hunching in, head down, body twisting, and he doesn’t stand a chance, James can see him, gone are the careful calculated steps, there’s no finesse-

-blue-

-Steve hits the floor like a ton of bricks, legs, hips, back, head with a _crack_ James can hear, the things he was carrying go down with him and shatter around him, one, two, three, _Jesus Christ._

“Steve!” James gasps, but he can’t yell it this time, Steve’s-

Ah, Jesus, oh Steve, James runs over to him as soon as he can get the lights to _stop doing what they’re fucking doing,_ and Steve’s put his hands down by then, lying very still on his back with his eyes closed and his jaw clenched,

“Fuck,” he mutters, slurred, and his face is _white_.

“Don’t move!” James says, and Steve’s head turns away from him just a little, a flinch. “Don’t move,” James says again, and he starts using the side of his shoe to kick shards of crockery away.

Ramekins, he thinks, and maybe a drinking glass. The frying pan is upside down, the spatula feet away sauce and meat and vegetables all over the floor and Steve and the cupboards.

Steve doesn’t say anything else, opening his eyes instead to stare up at the ceiling. James moves the big shards out of the way and then kneels down next to him. He wants to cradle Steve’s head in his hands, wants to check Steve for concussion.

“Sorry,” Steve says, breathless, and James needs to stop him before he puts his hands down anywhere. 

“No, I,” James says, slow, hands out but hovering because he daren’t touch, hoping he doesn’t look like a fucking idiot, or like he thinks Steve’s about to attack him. “It’s okay, y-you said blue light’s a trigger, right? Like…” he’s not sure he wants to say anything. “Like Chitauri weapons?”

“Hydra,” Steve says, and sags against the floor as he stares up at the ceiling. “Like hydra weapons.”

Steve’s voice has turned monotone again, and James doesn’t know what to say to that - doesn’t know how to answer. It turns out that he doesn’t have to, of course, Steve tells him.

“Hydra weapons were that color, too. Blue. Blue that hurt your head and made lines on your pictures and put spots in your eyes. Too blue, you know? Just,” his eyes close, “too blue. Too blue.”

James can hear that he’s drifting, sinking into a memory. He doesn’t know how to stop it, or even if he should. 

“Steve,” he says. “Steve, I don’t know what to do.”

Steve shakes his head minutely, slowly too. 

“You can’t,” he breathes, and it sounds like there was more to that sentence but he doesn’t say anything else.

“I’m sorry,” James says, close to tears because he can’t help it, and he covers his mouth with one hand while Steve drifts, trying not to burst into tears because he needs to be present, _Steve_ needs him to be present. “I’m sorry, Steve, I don’t-”

“Okay,” Steve says. 

He’s shivering. 

“What do I do?” James says. “What do I do?”

For a long few moments, he says nothing, breathing deliberately slowly, still and silent. And then his eyes open again - he looks exhausted - he lifts his head and examines himself and his surroundings.

“Help me with the kitchen,” he says softly, and pulls his body up until he’s sitting up.

He doesn’t look at James.

***

They have takeout.

Cleanup is twenty minutes of the two of them moving near-silently around the kitchen, and Steve’s the one who picks up the frying pan and puts it straight in the sink, so James at least knows where they stand on food. The thing is, it’s important for Steve to eat at the best of times, but now? After a (James doesn’t even know what to call it) a trigger….episode…flashback reaction or something, now? When he’s at a pretty big fucking low, yeah, he needs to eat. 

Steve picks shards off the floor, and James is terrified he’s going to be too shaky to do it safely, but he’s also reluctant to say to a forty-two-year-old that he ought to be careful of sharp edges, especially given that it’s Steve and his day job is a billion times more dangerous than a shattered ramekin. James starts wiping the sauce off the cupboards, because he can’t get it off the floor while Steve’s picking bits up off the floor. 

Once Steve moves enough, James does the floor and then, when he’s done the floor, he starts on the other places he can see - table legs, the undersides of the chair - it was just a pan for both of them, Steve had barely started cooking, how can there have been so much sauce?

Once that's done too, Steve sweeps the floor for little bits and pieces he might have missed, and then goes upstairs to change. His nice light-blue button-down is covered in splatters, and there’s dried sauce on the underside of his chin, a little in his hair, his eyebrow, a streak over his neck, speckles all over his arms. It’s too red to look like blood, way more tomato than sanguine, but James worries anyway.

Steve reappears with damp hair at his bangs and right temple, and his skin is clean where James can see it inside the hoodie he’s wearing instead. He comes down the stairs and then goes into the reading section to move a couple of the ornaments around, and then he starts making noises about starting over and James won’t have it, it’s not fair to him to have to start again.

“I, James,” he says, and James looks at him.

“I know,” he says. “You want to do something and end up with something, but do you trust yourself around sharp knives right now?”

“Do I-” Steve says, and then scrubs his hands over his face with a groan. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

James shakes his head.

“Don’t, it’s my fault,” he says. “All of it is. I’m the one asked about your tags, I’m the one went on about my stupid program, I’m the one who put up the damned li-” 

“Stop, stop,” Steve says, eyes shut tight as he holds up his hand, as though James were shouting full volume. “Stop it, I don’t- James, I don’t have the. The energy for this. I don’t.”

James sucks his teeth for a moment. He’s afraid, is what it is. He’s brought this on, he’s pushed Steve down into a rut, it’s his fault Steve’s day went from good to bad to worse.

“I’m sorry,” James tells him, and Steve shakes his head. 

“Please, I don’t have the energy for this,” he says again. 

Which is not an acceptance of James’ apology. James doesn’t know what to do at this point. Steve has problems, of course he does. James _knows_ this but, for all the times Steve’s had little issues, it’s never been James who made them rear their heads. 

“Steve,” he says, because he has no idea what to say, he doesn’t know how to make this better. “I,” and it’s _hard_ because there’s something glaringly obvious that’s going to eat him up from the inside. “Steve, are we okay?”

“For God’s sake,” Steve says, and James is- James is taken aback by that, what the hell, why does- “not every goddamn problem is a breakup-problem, if I tell you we’re fine can we _please-_ I do not have the energy to argue with you, I do not have the energy to spend four hours dissecting this, I ca- I love you, I love you but I can’t - I barely know how _I_ feel, I don’t have the, I can’t- I, James, can you please? Just, please. You- I can’t.”

It’s like a slap in the face if he’s perfectly honest but it’s fair, right? They can talk about this, they can deal with this - they always do, but now’s not the time. If Steve can’t handle his own emotions, he shouldn’t also have to handle James’. 

“Yeah,” James says eventually. “I’ll order food.”

So they have takeout.

James gets Italian because that’s what Steve was making - because he’s right, Italian is comforting. At least, it is when Steve makes it, and that’s what he was making so that’s clearly what he wanted. James puts more of the apple juice in cups and then goes to sit down in the reading section with them.

Steve sits down at the dining table and folds his arms, puts his head on his folded arms. And James debates leaving him there because James was pretty obvious about sitting in the reading section, but it’s _Steve_ , and Steve’s _hurting_. James gets up, takes the apple juices with him, and sets them down on the other side of the table from Steve. Then he pulls out a chair and sits down next to him.

“Steve,” he says softly, stroking his hand down Steve’s back, and Steve lifts his head. 

He looks pale, and tired, and he lifts one arm so he can prop his head up on one hand. It’s not an answer, but James suspects it’s meant as one. 

“I want to know how best to help,” he says, and Steve’s eyes close, his long lashes sweep down.

“This is good,” he says. And then he puts his arm down so he’s just sitting up, he stares at the tabletop. Then he shakes his head. “It’s,” he says, but then he shakes it harder and looks away. 

“If you want to talk, I’ll listen,” James says. “If you don’t, we can just sit.”

And Steve laughs softly. It’s not a nice sound - it conveys the hurt, and it hurts James to hear it, too.

“The thing is is that, in a war, people die,” Steve says. “Okay? Rivers run red and it ain’t hyperbole - there’s so much blood fields are saturated, there’s enough to cover you if you’re standing close to just one guy. But hundreds, no. Nono, it’s everywhere. Everybody on their backs or on their stomachs or whatever, eyes open, some of ‘em missing pieces. There’s bodies, _everywhere._ But with….Hydra…”

He’s quiet for a very long time. James can hear the clocks in the place ticking, can hear the crackle of the fire and the low, hollow bass of the wind catching the corners of the building outside. 

“You ever been in a house that don’t got people in there no more? How quiet it is?” and he looks at James. James nods. “It was like that after Hydra,” Steve says. “You’d show up places and you didn’t know if people was hidin’ or if they’d left or if Hydra got ‘em, fields full of ash, God. Full of ash until it blew away. Ghost towns lookin’ like Christmas cookies, you couldn’t always tell. Looked like it was just dusk from a distance, ‘til you got there and made footprints in what used to be people. Weren’t much of it, neither, it weren’t thick, it was just…”

He puts his elbows on the table-top and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

“Like dust. Like the town had been left a little too long.” 

James strokes his back, starts a rhythm. Up and back and up and back. 

“I used to. Ask everybody’s names, you know? My brain can’t forget a man, so I’d ask everyone I could. What’s your name, where you from, who d’you report to. I’d draw everybody I could remember. Before, you fought a battle, there were bodies, there was blood. It was everywhere but with Hydra…With Hydra if…if you didn’t know a guy and he got hit…”

If you didn’t know a guy and he got hit, then there was nothing to identify him by. James can’t imagine it - people say ‘here one moment, gone the next,’ but if it were true, if he had to see it…

“People were confetti. You could talk to a guy one second and he was ash the next, people were just gone. Just gone, I used to draw ‘em, show the pictures around. Who was this guy, anybody know his name. Otherwise nobody’d ever know. Family, friends, he’d be MIA and there’d be nothing you could do about it unless I had his picture. I couldn’t get all of ‘em. Sometimes nobody’d ever know. And I thought it was, you- You didn’t need a hit. It wasn’t like a bullet, you couldn’t get winged, you didn’t get a flesh wound. If it got you, you were gone. Your only defense without my goddamn shield was _duck._ ”

“It’s been a bad day,” James says softly.

“Yeah,” Steve nods. 

James hitches his chair a little closer with a couple of squeaks. 

“I love you,” James tells him, and Steve takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and nods slowly.

“I love you too,” he says. “I’m being an asshole, don’t argue with me. But I’m sorry. And I love you too.”

***

James moves them, eventually. Or, it’s James’ idea.

It doesn’t really occur to him to do it, he just feels that it’s the right time for it. Partially, it’s not as warm at the table as it is where the fire’s crackling in the reading section, partially he knows there are softer seats, but really it’s that Steve, sitting hunched over at the dining table, isn’t nearly as close or accessible as James would like him to be. He hasn’t eaten, he doesn’t want to eat.

He has his hand on Steve’s back, turned towards him, other hand propping up his head on the table, but they’ve been sitting still for a while when James makes up his mind. He rubs Steve’s back a couple of times, just because he’s had his hand still between Steve’s shoulderblades, and then he gets up from the table as quietly as he can. 

The silence feels like something he should preserve. 

For a moment or two, he thinks about the bed. The afternoon sun is low and bright through the windows, but upstairs is a long way away. Even the couch is…

He knows. He knows what he’s going to do because it’s Steve’s idea - Steve showed him how. 

Way, way back, when they went to sleep in his living room in tower under the planetarium, Steve showed him how.

He goes over to the couch in the reading section and moves the throw pillows, the blanket. Then he starts pulling the couch cushions off the couch and putting them on the floor instead. Once he’s done, he moves the coffee table back, and then he lines the couch cushions up in front of the fire, grabbing a blanket. Then he looks at Steve. Steve is looking back at him, eyes a little narrowed.

“I was cold,” James says, although it’s not true in the slightest, and Steve draws a deep breath and looks at him. 

Looks at the couch cushions on the floor. 

And then, like some kind of miracle, he stands. Steve moves slowly, like he’s old, like he’s tried. He’s both in a way, James thinks, and he’s entitled to feel those things even though he doesn’t look them. He comes to James as though he’s not sure what to do after he gets there, step by step from kitchen to the fireside, and then he’s standing next to James, who’s standing next to the cushions. He stares at them - James is missing something, probably, but it’s not the time to ask, and so James doesn’t say anything else. The fire crackles, the clocks tick, and James takes Steve’s hand instead, steps backwards onto the couch cushions and sinks down onto his knees, lets himself tip sideways until he’s sitting. Then he pulls his sweater over his head and drops it off the side of the cushions before he starts on the buttons of his shirt. It’s not cold, not really, not here. 

Steve sinks down next to him, one knee and then the other, tips sideways too so that they’ll be face to face when they lie down - that’s what James is aiming for. That’s what Steve needs.

James kisses him, just leans forward and slides one hand around the back of Steve’s head inside his hood, and then kisses him, leans forward to put his whole body into it so Steve doesn’t have to move too far. When he pulls away, he thinks for a moment that Steve’s gone to look down, but he’s hunching forward to put his forehead against James’ shoulder instead. 

“Sorry,” he says, and James shakes his head, rests his cheek against the top of Steve’s skull.

“No,” he says softly. 

Steve’s hoodie is clean, James can smell the soap from his hair, and the fire burns at their feet. The air inside is still and the smell of the food still lingers. 

Steve lifts his head, rubs his hand over his face and half-opens his eyes. Here is better than bed, to sleep in the warmth of the downstairs is easier than to climb the mountain of stairs to reach cold sheets. 

James leans down on his elbow, follow-my-lead, and Steve lies down next to him, on his back. His hood pools around the back of his head, so James tugs the hem a little, so that Steve’s neck won’t get cold. 

Steve didn’t replace his shirt, James finds when he pushes his fingers inside the hem of Steve’s hoodie and finds bare skin, and Steve’s lashes sweep down, his mouth opens. James flattens his hand against Steve’s waist and moves his thumb back and forth for a moment or two. Steve’s pale, his expression pinched as though he has a headache he can’t get rid of, and so James lies down next to him, on his side, reaches out for the blanket and pulls it up over them both. 

He gets his arm under Steve’s head, brings Steve’s head against his chest, and Steve turns toward him anyway, tucks himself up against James and gets his hands inside the open halves of James’ shirt. James embraces Steve with one arm underneath him, wrapping it around his neck, stretching out to bolster him. With the other, he slides his fingers onto the back of the head full of thick, dark blond hair, and then follows the line of his neck down, out over the warm, smooth muscle of his shoulders. 

Steve doesn’t say anything else. He breathes, lying quietly, and is still.

“I get you anything?” James asks.

“You’re fine,” Steve says, a mumble as he presses his face to James’ skin. “You’re doing plenty for me just like this.”

James nods, and slides his free hand back, over Steve’s arm, onto his chest, telegraphing clearly as he goes for the zipper on Steve’s hoodie, but he doesn’t have to worry.

Steve doesn’t object - he just lies still until the hoodie opens, and then makes a soft sound in the back of his throat when James presses them together, skin to skin. James puts his hand up the back of Steve’s hoodie then, flattens his palm between Steve’s shoulders, and Steve curls forward against him, gets as close as he can.

James shakes his head, cards his fingers through Steve’s hair. It’s soft and clean and smells like his shampoo - he’s switched to a warmer-scented one with the colder weather, and it’s nice. James’ fingers leave lines of ruffled hair in their wake, and Steve just holds himself still, closes his eyes again, breathes quietly.

They’re being quiet together and it’s nice, proximity and contact are things that James enjoys very much, with or without the sexual aspect. Steve’s hands move, come up to press against James’ back to take his weight, and James rubs his fingers over Steve’s skull a little, down over the crown of his head, back up from the nape of his neck, over the soft skin behind his ear.

“Mmh,” he says, very, very quietly. “You don’t have to stay if I’m being too-”

“Stop,” James says, “baby, stop.” 

“It’s a bad day,” Steve answers quietly. “ ‘S’just a bad day, sweetheart, just. I’m. This is where I want to be, this is all I need. Don’t need you to- Just want you in the place. Home with you, that’s all I need. That’s all. S’all I need.”

“I know,” James tells him. “But…” And this, this is hard. “Steve, we need to talk more about this.”

Because this isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last time. There needs to be a game plan and James is very aware, in a way he is not normally, of how many years lie between them. Steve’s come from a different place and his journey is different, and they can’t go on like this.

There is a very long silence. 

James tucks his chin down to look at him - from here, with his head forward and his hood up, all James can really see of Steve is the top half of his face, but his eyes are closed, the line between his eyebrows, though shallower, is still there. 

“I know,” Steve rasps. “I know.”

“I love you,” James tells him, like a secret. “I love you so much.”

“Me too, sweetheart,” Steve says. “I love you too.”


	2. Chapter 2

Steve’s lying on his back by morning, one arm under James, the other over his own waist. 

He’s a hell of a sight to wake up to, that’s for sure - his beard’s come in and so’s his chest hair, and James wants nothing as much as he wants to touch. It’s not the right time for it - especially considering that sleeping through means they’ve skipped a meal - but Steve’s head is turned away from him, hood still up, and every way Steve is, James wants to touch him. When he sits at the dining table, when he works at his desk or reads on the couch. Now, James can see the jut of his eyebrow and the cut of his cheekbone, the slant of his jaw that leads down to the length of his throat and the beautiful lines of muscle that make up his torso. It’s a sliver of skin that’s bared to the cool air - he must have pushed the blanket down when he moved away. 

James does touch him - he lifts his free hand and splays his fingers to run the tips of them over Steve’s collarbones and back, over his sternum. He follows the line of Steve’s chest down until he reaches Steve’s wrist where it’s draped over his stomach, and then settles his hand over Steve’s.

Steve’s not quite awake, James thinks. He’s not always able to tell but Steve’s breathing sounds different, and so James shuffles a little closer, presses his mouth to Steve’s cheek, his throat, his chest. Steve draws a deeper breath and turns his head a little, so that James finds he’s looking straight at him when he lifts his head again. Steve searches James’ face with his gaze for a few moments, and then looks around the room slowly - James watches his eyes move.

He closes his eyes then, for a long few moments. He doesn’t seem any happier for having slept, doesn’t seem to have any more energy. He looks like someone’s cut his strings, like somebody’s run his battery down.

He turns his head and searches James’ face, eyes narrowing, then drops James’ gaze. 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he says. “I won’t be long.”

James nods, brushes Steve’s hair back off his forehead with careful fingers.

“I promise,” Steve says, as though it’s unreasonable a request, and James nods, suddenly realizing what it sounds like.

It sounds like the end of something.

“Okay,” he rasps. 

Steve lies still for a few seconds longer, and then heaves himself up - it looks like it’s an effort - and gets off the couch cushions. Then he walks through the living space towards the back rooms and the en suite - fair enough. James can- Can understand his not feeling like climbing the stairs, James doesn’t much feel like taking the stairs either. 

He starts putting the couch cushions back, starts rearranging the throw pillows. He straightens the pouf and the rug, folds the blanket. The place is quiet without music, without the bustle of another human being. The would-be-distant noise of traffic doesn’t get through the glazing in this place, and all James really hears is the hum of the refrigerator. The fire must have died sometime in the night. 

Steve is, true to his word, not long at all. He hasn’t changed, he hasn’t shaved so his beard's still there - he just shows back up and closes the door to the back rooms quietly behind him. 

He comes all the way back to the reading section, and takes a seat on the pouf instead of on the couch next to James. James tries to smile.

Steve does not.

"You were right when you said we need to talk," Steve says softly, and he sounds…

James' hearts sinks.

Steve sounds sad, resigned, and James hates that tone of voice. He's heard that tone of voice before but he was starting to think he'd never never hear it from Steve. Still, after what Steve said yesterday, James doesn't want to ask even though he's pretty sure he knows what's coming, and Steve draws a long, slow breath.

"Is there anything you want to say first?"

And he hesitates. After the way Steve reacted last time, James doesn’t want to voice the question but he wants to know. Steve looks unhappy and regretful and they've just had what a amounts to a terrible episode - James is pretty sure that 'causing a massive mental breakdown' is probably high on Steve's list of deal-breakers, and he needs to know. Steve has this way of explaining everything and then making his point at the end, and James can't stand the suspense. If it's going to happen, if he's going to do it, James wants that bandaid ripped off now 

"Is _this_ a breakup talk?" he says, and his wishes his voice would be stronger but he’s almost glad that it’s not.

Steve takes a deep breath in through his nose and searches James' face.

"No," he says, and James gets a weird buzzing in his ears, gets an ache in the back of his skull as his tendons fight to laugh even though it's really not the time for that - half of his muscles are thinking about crying in relief. "Not from my side." What? What does _that_ mean? "And," Steve continues, "what I said to you yesterday about it was awful. I hope you can forgive me."

"What?" James says, incredulous. "Why do you need to be forgiven?"

Steve looks kind of like he's about to cut James off halfway through, but his holds his tongue until James has finished.

"Because every time something's gone drastically wrong, you've asked the same logical question, and I was panicking yesterday. I couldn't handle my emotions, and I dismissed your fears in the face of my own, it was unkind. And I've done it every time, pretty much."

James blinks at him.

"It's true," Steve says, "isn't it?"

"I mean," James says. "But…I mean, we don’t argue much? A-And it’s not like you’re down all the time.”

"That's also true,” Steve nods. “And so every bad thing that happens feels drastic, because it's such a change from everything else we feel the rest of the time, right? If I've never said an angry word to you and then I yell at you about a cup of tea, that feels like a terrible thing, doesn't it?"

James frowns a little, and Steve shakes his head, gaze unwavering.

"You can answer me honestly, baby, please - you gotta be able to tell me what you think."

James tries not to think about it, but it's hard not to remember the frustration of it - of that argument about the tea, of being talked to like he didn't know what he was talking about. Worse, actually, about being talked to like Steve was in charge of him, like James needed reprimanding. And not in the fun way.

"It felt like a terrible thing," James answers. 

Because it did, they all have - the cup of tea when Steve had been shot, the nipple thing, this flashback. They're so out of the ordinary, so terrifyingly different, they feel like whales in a swimming pool.

"Yeah," Steve says, nodding in agreement - he already knew the answer. "And it isn't fair to you. I tell you what's going on, I ask you to leave it alone, and then I act like it didn't happen. That's not fair to you. Is it?"

James finds it hard to breathe.

"Be honest," Steve says.

"No," James answers, and it hurts to say it, to look at the face of the man he loves and tell him he's unfair. 

Steve gives him so much, does so much for him, loves him so much.

"We can't go on this way," Steve says. "Right?"

James shakes his head, has to bite his lip for a moment, hold his breath.

"No," he says. 

This is not a breakup. This is not a breakup.

"Then I want you to hear me say this now, first of all," Steve says, "I do not want to break up with you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I will _tell_ you if that ever changes, but I _also_ want you to know," he continues, and he holds up a hand here just in case James was going to say something, "that it was a dick move to tell you off for it. It’s a dick move to tell you off, first of all, plus it ain't your fault you're worried, 'specially when I'm actin' like that. And you must, I cannot stress this enough, you have _got_ to feel able to ask me anything. Okay?"

Ah-kai. 

"Yeah," James says, and Steve shakes his head. 

"I mean it," he says. "So listen, you ask me every day if you want, six times a day if you need: I shouldn't have dismissed you out-of-hand like that." 

"You were panicking," James says, because he can understand why it happened. 

"That's an excuse," Steve nods. "But so were you. I was unkind. Agreed?" 

And James feels his mouth open a little, feels his eyes sting. This…is not what he expected but it kind of…It sits better in the back of his throat than anything else did yesterday, and he feels his brow furrow. 

"I," he says, and then he has to swallow hard. "Agreed?" he says, and his voice is rough with it. He doesn't want to admit it - does that make sense? He doesn't want it to be true but… 

But it is. Steve wasn't the only one panicking. 

"Yeah," Steve says. 

"But it's not your responsibility to look after me," James says, and Steve narrows his eyes. 

"You spent the whole night with me on the floor," he says. "We're together. We're supposed to take care of each other. You took care of me." 

James wets his lips. 

That's true too. 

"But," he says, and he feels like crying. He feels sad, and he feels angry, and he feels- It hurts, he realizes. It hurts his chest, he's been hurt. "Why did you," he says, and then it's hard to keep speaking. 

Steve reaches for his hand, wraps his fingers around James' fingers. 

"I'm sorry," Steve whispers, "I'm so sorry. I know that it's not something I can control, panic. But I…" he shakes his head, and he looks kind of like he might cry too. "I know that, for me, the way I can best handle things is to shut down for a little. But then I- I don’t talk about it any further. And you and I can't go on like this. Right?" 

"Right?" James says, and it scrapes up from the back of his throat. 

"I'm not breaking up with you," Steve says, and he presses his lips together after, a dimple appears in his chin, his eyes are shining, "not unless that's what you want." 

"No!" James says, but it doesn't come out right, and Steve shuts his eyes and nods. 

"Okay," he says, almost a breath, and then he sniffs. "Okay. Then I'm gonna tell you some stuff and then I'm gonna ask you some stuff and I need you to answer honestly, and I need you to ask me what you feel you need to ask me. 'Cause…This whole thing I’ve been doing until now, it didn't work for me and my ex, I don't know why I thought it was gonna work for me and you. So we move forward together. Right?" 

James sniffs as well, nods until he can speak. 

"Right," he says. 

Steve nods too. He takes a deep breath. 

"Okay," he says. "So here's how I'm gonna try this - when this happens, and it does, and it will," he closes his eyes briefly, "it always will," and he looks miserable, helpless in a way James hasn't seen him look before - it's kind of terrifying. He wants to give Steve a hug. "When it happens, I need to take that step back, I do. But if I'm a dick, you _say_ so. If I'm not listening, you _tell me._ It's not your responsibility to keep me in check, that's not what I mean, but don't let me make you small. This thing should be both of us, okay, this relationship should be you and me, not me making the decisions for both of us." 

James nods, tries to remember this. Tries to imagine shouting at Steve if Steve's being a dick. 

Steve's almost never a dick. 

"Yeah," James says. 

Steve's face crumples a bit. 

"I got," he says. "I got a lotta problems. And this time'a year's always hard but it…it's been a long time since I had to factor somebody else in, and I'm doin' a shit job of it. So if I hurt you, you tell me. Please. A'right?" 

James nods. His throat hurts. His eyes sting. 

"You yelled at me," he says. "And I was just trying to help and I know you were panicking and I know it was my fault-" 

"It wasn't," Steve says, he takes James' other hand in his own as well, "It wasn't your fault, I'm…I need to," he says, "talk to my therapist about it and I…" his breathing is labored, and James realizes he's trying not to cry. He shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says, "I'm so sorry. It's so ha- _hard_ and I…" he shakes his head, looks up at the ceiling before he looks at James' knees. "I should be trusting you with it, not shutting you out." 

James reaches out for him. He doesn't make the decision, it's just something he does - lets go of his hands and gets up and wraps Steve in his arms instead, holds him close. 

"I'm here," he says, "that's why I'm here, I love you." 

"I know," Steve says. "I love you too and I'm sorry. I'll do better but you gotta swear to me," and he pushes James back, holds him by his shoulders, "promise you won't get lost in this." 

James shakes his head. 

"I don't understand," he says, and Steve shakes his head too. 

"They used to write it on posters and in pamphlets down at the VA - 'it's hard to save people. And if you only save one person in your life, that's okay. And it's okay if that one person-' " it's hard to talk, James can hear how hard it is for him to talk, "'it's okay if that one person is you.' " Oh. Oh, oh no. "You gotta promise me, _promise_ me, 'cause I'll try as hard as I can but you gotta swear, swear you won't let me take you down with me." 

"Steve," James says, he doesn't want to hear things like this, but Steve doesn't let him avoid it. 

"No, listen," he says, "my ex saved herself. And it was hard to admit it but that's what she had to do, and if it comes to that, I need to know - James, I love you more than anything, I will do my best to keep you safe, but you gotta do the same. You gotta, you promise me." 

James nods. 

"I," he says, and he sobs, it bubbles up by itself. "I promise." 

Steve nods. 

"And you and me, we're equals. A'right?" Steve says. "You get mad at me, you ask me shit, you do shit or don't, we're equals. I'm not your keeper or your father - I'm your partner. I love you. That's what a relationship's about." 

James nods, sniffs. He pulls on of his hands from Steve's to swipe his hand over his face. 

"So I," he says. "I can ask you anything, huh?" 

Steve nods. 

"Absolutely," he says. "We _have_ to be equal, James, or this is never gonna work - you can ask me anything, you can tell me anything. And I gotta start listening instead of just hearin'." 

James nods. Thinks about it for a minute. 

"What's your favourite sexual position?" he says, and Steve laughs, shocked into it. 

It's such a difference - his face goes from crumpled up and pulled down to bright and open in a split-second, and then he sniffs, he swipes his hand over his own face, too. 

Then he pauses, and then he chuckles. 

"You know, it's," he says, and then laughs, ducks his head, meek. "I like missionary?" 

James laughs too, a little thickly, searches Steve's face with his eyes. 

"We gonna be okay?" he says, and Steve's smile isn't quite so broad, but it is pulled up at one corner. 

"Yeah," he says, squeezes the fingers of the hand he's still holding. "We are." 

James nods. 

"There is other stuff," he says, and Steve regards him. "I get it," he says, "the PTSD stuff, H-Hydra, and the war. I don't…know what it's like but I'm here if you want to talk. O-Or if you don't or, you know, I. Understand that, at least but there's. Other stuff." 

"Like?" Steve says, brow furrowing a little. 

"Money," James tells him. "And putting me on a pedestal all the time." 

Steve draws a long, slow breath, but nods slowly. 

"Yeah," he says. "That's a conversation we need to have. Or…again, one I need to actually listen to." 

"And," James says, and here he looks Steve up and down, chest, stomach, legs, hands, chest, face. "Do you," he says, and then he wonders if he ought to be saying this, wonders if he should be asking Steve to talk to a doctor. "You seem….like you think you don't belong. In your body." 

And Steve leans back, one hand still in James', the anticipation of the question leaving his eyes before his lashes sweep down, shoulders sagging. 

"Yeah," Steve says. "Sometimes." 

"Like how you don't like me to spring a handjob on you," he says. "Or you don't like to look in mirrors." 

Steve nods. 

"Yeah," he says, and then he opens his eyes again. "We been working on it a while, me and my thera- Dr Singh. Amrit and me, it's…better than it was but it's still..." He rolls one shoulder in a shrug. "It's not me sometimes," he says. "If I don't think about it too hard, it's okay - they're my hands, I can draw, they're my legs, I can run, and most of the time I'm fine. Almost all the time. But…sometimes I look at me and…" he shakes his head. "It feels vain to be proud of it. To have gotten rid of what my mother made. And I don't feel like I deserve it, I don't feel I'll ever have done enough to earn it, and…for a while…it was all people saw and I was just a name on the inside. Posters and trading cards and 'Captain America!' and just…I was in there somewhere, but I wasn't _me_ either." 

Steve says nothing for a long few seconds that stretch with the tension of held breath and wrung hands. 

"And…And it was always harder because…even though I know he was lying to protect me," he says, voice turning high, thin, and oh, oh if James could change this memory, if James could make it better, but he can't and it _hurts_ Steve so, James can _see_ it hurting, "it's hard to love what he said he hated." 

And James shakes his head, lifts his hand to Steve's forearm, rubs his thumb over the fabric and resolves to stay here for the fallout but… 

But the swell of tears doesn't come. The gasping sobs that James is expecting don't begin and Steve's frowning. He looks confused. 

"You've never said that before," James says. 

Steve shakes his head a little. 

"No," he says, sounding just as confused as he looks. "No, I haven't." And then he draws a clearer breath than any in the last five minutes. "That…" 

James nods, reaches up and brushes hair back off Steve's forehead. 

"Okay," he says. "One step at a time, right?" 

And Steve looks at him, head moving slowly before he seems to focus very intently on James' face. 

"Thank you," he says softly. 

James frowns at him. 

"For what?" he says. 

And in a show of absolute honestly, the painful baring of a memory he looks like he'd give anything to forget, he says, 

"For loving me. And letting me love you back." 

***

“I’m hungry,” Steve says eventually, his voice soft.

It’s a Sunday, which means he won’t be eating until after mass. 

“We skipped a meal,” James says, and Steve looks at him again, because Steve never did eat that Italian.

He narrows his eyes, seems to think of something.

“How ‘bout you get dressed?” he says. “Wear something warm, I’ll take you out for something. Sound good?”

James frowns. 

“What?” he says. “Aren’t you going to church?”

“No,” Steve answers. “We’re going to breakfast.”

***

They walk.

Steve keeps his head down and his hands in his pockets, and the morning is hazy with the low sunlight - it’s _eight in the morning_ on a Sunday. 

And, to be fair to him, firstly they’ve skipped a meal so Steve’s whole being will be driven by the thought of food, secondly Steve’s not going to be high-functioning today _at all_ after yesterday, and thirdly he asked several times if James _definitely wanted to come with him,_ as though he wasn’t sure James would want to go _anywhere_ with him. James does want to go with him. He trusts that Steve can take care of himself, but he feels like he wants to be there anyway. It’s sort of the least he can do.

“Where are we going?” he asks, breath forming clouds. 

It’s hard to keep up with Steve - he’s having to not-quite-jog - and Steve glances back at him and then slows his pace, looking concerned.

“Sorry, honey,” he says, and offers his arm, sets his hand over James’ once James’ curls around his forearm. “Somewhere quiet,” he says. “I wanted to take you for…” But he shakes his head. “I don’t know when. I just wanted to, for months. So we’re going now.”

Steve’s pace isn’t a problem after that, once James is tucked up against his side, and they tuck their chins down against their scarves, clamp their arms against their bodies for warmth while they keep gloved hands out of the air. James has his notebook, too, although some of the light faded from Steve’s eyes when he asked if he should bring it.

“How far is it?” James asks the folds of fabric around his neck, and Steve shakes his head.

“Maybe twenty minutes,” he says. “I. Didn’t want to be. On the road.”

James nods, wishing for his chapstick as he wets his lips and then has to dry them immediately with the thumb of his glove.

“That’s okay,” he says. “That’s okay.”

And Steve looks down at him, his expression soft. 

“Love you,” he murmurs, and then he shakes his head. “I love you.”

James points at his chest, _me_ , and then holds up two fingers, _too_ , and Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corners though he doesn’t show his teeth when a smile curves his lips.

They don’t talk much on the way. The sidewalk is cold and hard beneath their feet, traffic moving around the city even though it’s so early on a Sunday and, eventually, they come to a nondescript looking brick building that looks like it’s going to be some sort of…giant…warehouse thing on the inside. James isn’t even expecting Steve to turn into it, to go down the side-alley or push through the big wooden door, but he does, and James follows, and then…

Well, the first thing he notices is that it’s is absolutely not a single degree warmer on the inside of the building than it is on the outside. Breath making clouds, skin still tight, bodies still hunched. But, after that, it’s like a wonderland. The inside is bare brick, the walls adorned with eccentric artwork - splattered canvases and moss in picture frames, twisted wicker over stretched fabric, one set is a portrait painted on plates. The floor is concrete, the ceiling is corrugated iron and skylights held together by exposed metal beams, and pillars sprout from the floor painted in weird colors. 

In two places, big tubs of flowers hang from the ceiling in giant hanging baskets, and along one wall is a row of three…cubicles? Sort of? Berths that are built in anyway - and each one has a gap in front of it, then a counter. Along another wall is what looks like an ice-cream bar, with handwritten signs all over the place, chalkboards, laminated paper, post-its, and then the rest of the room is full of the most mismatched furniture James has ever seen. 

Armchairs, deck chairs, dining chairs, bar stools, benches, loveseats, swivel chairs, all of them coupled with coffee tables, trestle tables, dining tables, picnic tables, café tables, garden tables, each table with a vase and a candle. Except that every vase is a jar or a jug or a carafe, and every candle sits in a candle-holder or a candlestick or a jar or a little colored glass. The whole thing looks like it was thrown together out of the back of a Goodwill and it couldn’t be more charming. There are throw pillows everywhere, in varying sizes and patterns, and blankets over the arms of some of the chairs, over the backs of some of the armchairs. 

A speaker system in the corner plays easy listening, and the only light in the dining section comes through the big, wide, wooden-framed windows high, high up by the ceiling. Nobody else, aside from staff, is here yet.

“Let me know what you want,” Steve says and, when James turns to look at him, he’s looking at the three berths against the wall.

Above each one, James is only now seeing, are more handwritten signs, chalkboards again, and James slowly realizes that he’s looking at menus. Each berth is a tiny kitchen, each counter in front must be where you go to get served.

“What?” James says and Steve points at the rightmost one.

“I’m having gnocchi,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”

One of the ones is Asian - rice bowls, sushi - one’s all fish and seafood, and the other is, just as Steve says, gnocchi. Even their _dessert_ is gnocchi.

“Uh,” James says.

“If you want,” Steve says, “you can pick something and we’ll half and half it, if you can’t decide.”

“Uh,” James says again, and then he nods. “Okay. How about, uh….teriyaki salmon donburi?”

“Sure,” Steve says, and he unlinks his arm from James’. 

James misses the weight of it immediately, misses Steve’s closeness even more, but Steve moves over to the Asian counter and orders, pays, and then comes back to the gnocchi counter and orders, pays.

“How long has this been here?” James asks when Steve rejoins him, and Steve shakes his head.

“The building was here when I was a kid, dunno how long it’s been an eatery,” he says. “As for the menu, it changes every week. They only open on weekends.”

James’ mouth drops open.

“What?” he says. “Just like Saturday and Sunday?” 

In _Brooklyn_?

“Yep” Steve nods. 

“What,” James says again, and Steve takes his arm again, turns him. 

They make a leisurely beeline for a tiny little café table, with a candle-holder and a fake poppy in a ceramic beer bottle. Steve snags a blanket off one of the couches as he passes, and stands by the dining chair - the other chair at the table is wicker - and draws it out from under the table for James to take a seat on.

“What is this place?” James asks as he sits, and Steve just shakes his head as he puts the blanket over James’ knees.

“Kitchen,” he says.

James blinks at him. 

“Okay?” he says.

“Sorry - literally,” Steve says. “It’s called _‘The Kitchen.’_ That’s its name.”

“Oh,” James says, and Steve smiles a little.

“Do you want a coffee?” Steve asks him, and James frowns, looks around the place. 

“I…guess?” he says.

Steve looks at him for a moment.

“We’re out to breakfast, honey, what would you like to drink?”

“Uh,” James says. “Yeah, coffee. Cappuccino?”

Steve nods.

“Sure,” he says, and then he walks away behind James, over to the ice-cream bar where a lady’s watching him approach with a warm smile on her face.

James looks around while Steve’s not at the table, fascinated. Every time he looks, there’s more that he notices. Little lights in the hanging baskets, small paintings on some of the bricks. There are ornate chairs that look like they’ve come from a set and a big, long bench, presumably for parties. There’s a small display of squashes, and some leftover Christmas decor, and there’s even a…stack? Of something? It’s like a display of little…they look like cakes maybe. Huh.

“Here,” Steve says, and he sets James’ cappuccino down in front of him.

Steve has a faceted glass tumbler of something watery-white, and James frowns at it.

“What’ve _you_ got?” he says, and Steve smiles a little bashfully, ducking his head,

“Hot Vanilla Crème,” he says quietly, clouds of breath a little whiter with the heat of his mouthful. “Cream soda with hot milk.”

“What?” James chuckles. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “Like an ice-cream float but hot. And, no ice-cream.”

James wrinkles his nose as he smiles.

“And it’s good?”

“It’s weird,” Steve answers immediately, “but once you get used to the hot-and-sparkling, yeah. It’s good. You want to try?”

James cocks his head, looks around. The guys at the Asian stand (Kokoro) and the guys at the gnocchi stand (Hard Gnocc Life) are all busy, and the guys from Seafood Eatfood are talking with the coffee lady.

“Okay,” James says softly, one eye on anyone who might see them sharing drinks. “If you don’t mind.”

Steve shakes his head as he raises his eyebrows, one hand out to indicate his glass - _go ahead._ And James takes a sip.

It’s. 

Weird.

Like hot chocolate if it didn’t taste of chocolate, or like…well, it tastes like sparkling vanilla milk, and James knows his dad sometimes drinks an egg cream because he’s like way too into the West Wing but…

“It’s not… _bad_ …” James says, and Steve does show his teeth then, eyes closing.

“Well,” he says. “Now you know you don’t like it.”

James huffs a laugh, and then winces.

“Yeah. Thanks anyway.”

“Oh, my pleasure,” Steve says, hiding his smirk by taking another sip.

James takes a sip of his cappuccino, and tells himself it’s totally not to get rid of the weird feeling on his tongue.

It doesn’t take long for their meals to arrive and, even though James knows they’re splitting them, it’s still a little bit of a surprise to find that, when the person from Hard Gnocc Life brings the plate over, Steve says, 

“That’s me,” and then, “that’s him,” when the Kokoro dish arrives. 

They’re keeping up appearances, of course they are, but…huh. James is. 

Disappointed? A little?

Steve’s busy smelling his dish for a moment or two, so James does the same and…wow, okay.

“A’right,” Steve says. “So that’s uruchimai, teriyaki _sockeye_ salmon apparently, edamame beans, shredded carrot…is that parsley? Or maybe cilantro. And you got a lime wedge, too - nice,” James doesn’t pout. _We_ got a lime wedge. “Plus black sesame and scallions,” Steve is saying, “and then I’m pan fried gnocchi with bacon pieces and pine nuts, plus greens, an avocado, vine cherry tomatoes, and look at that egg, damn.”

James sees what he means - there is a fried egg in there, in the middle off all the other deliciousness, and he can _see_ that the yolk is runny. 

And, really, it’s moments like this that James knows Steve loves him: Steve discreetly crosses himself, pauses, and crosses himself again, saying grace in a way that doesn’t advertise the fact to anyone around him - James wouldn’t know himself if he weren’t looking directly at him - and then he grins, grabs his fork, stabs two of the crispy gnocci, a piece of bacon, and a smear of avocado, and then dunks the whole forkful in just about the runniest egg yolk James has ever seen in his life.

And then he holds it out _for James,_ eyes sparkling.

“Try this!” he murmurs, excitement showing in his barely-contained smile, hand under the fork to catch any drips.

James glances left and right, fast, and then holds out his hand. Steve blinks, confused, smile fading a little, and then his eyebrows go up.

“Oh,” he says quietly, and he hands the whole fork to James instead of just feeding him the mouthful.

Because they’re in public.

But James then eats the mouthful and-

“Ohmygod,” he mumbles. 

The gnocchi are crisp and flavorsome on the outside, dense and smooth and rich on the inside, the bacon is perfect, the avocado a perfect foil, and the yolk, that just-

“How did,” he says, chewing as he shakes his head a moment later.

It’s glorious, and James will never be the same.

Steve is _beaming._

“Here,” James says, scooping some of the rice - which is soaked with the sauce - and stabbing a couple of edamame beans before he goes for the nearest chunk of salmon. It’s been cooked well, dry and flaky without being overdone, so far from the soppy pink mess James often finds himself eating when he orders salmon, and he passes Steve the fork so Steve can try.

“Mhh,” Steve says, brow furrowing. “Mmm-hmm! _Mh._ ”

James laughs through his nose so he doesn’t fire bacon bits at Steve, and then they start to eat. 

James’ job is easy. Divide the rice, give most of the beans to Steve (James will eat edamame beans but he’s not their biggest fan), take out the cilantro because cilantro is what it turns out to be and James is someone to whom cilantro tastes like dish soap, and then split the salmon. When he looks up after that, Steve has halved the fried egg, divided the avocado, and is shoving half the gnocchi to one side. James is inordinately grateful he’s not counting them out one by one, and watches him pick up the vine cherry tomatoes and break the vine in half a few moments later, four for James, four for Steve.

When Steve sees him looking with an adorable double-take, he smiles, and bobs his eyebrows as he chews, and James answers with an eyebrow-bob of his own as he starts on his own meal.

It takes an embarrassingly short time to clear their plates. And then, atrociously, they both decide to order the same again.

It is. 

_Delicious._

~

Dessert, Steve informs him, will be cheesecake from the Seafood Eatfood guys, because they do non-seafood mini cheesecakes as well - displayed in a stack, as it turns out.

“And they’re customizable,” Steve informs him sagely. “They’re plain vanilla to start with and then you can have whatever you want on them.”

James opts for toffee caramel - honeycomb crunch and caramel sauce with chewy caramel pieces and crispy, crunchy toffee bits. It’s topped with a mini stroopwafel, a tuile cigar, and a disc (ish) of spun sugar, and James didn’t know his eyes could get as big as they get when he sees it.

“Oh wow,” he breathes.

Steve’s opted for orange chocolate - chocolate sauce and orange syrup with candied orange peel and chocolate shavings. His has a…like a…really thin chocolate cookie on top, with an orange fruit slice and what looks like tiny rock sugar pieces. They turn out-

“Mh!”

-to be Pop Rocks.

Steve gets a chai hot chocolate after his hot vanilla crème, and James has a latte - he thought about a mocha, but picks the latte so that he doesn’t wind up with sweetness overload. 

And, when they’re done, Steve looks more relaxed than he has since yesterday. One or two more people have filtered in, and the light has changed some, but they still could be on a different planet for how unlike the regular city bustle this little corner feels.

“Won’t Father Mulcahy be mad you missed church?” James says, and Steve’s gaze turns distant.

“Not sure I’m in the right place for communion,” he answers, and James nods slowly and says no more about it.

~

Steve leaves tips at the table and stacks the plates and cutlery so that they’re easier to take back (in three separate piles so that each section gets their own stuff and a tip back.

“What do you feel like next?” he says, folding the blanket James was using.

James has no idea.

“Like to eat?” he says. “Or to do?”

Steve rolls one shoulder.

“I dunno,” he says. “I could eat, but I could always eat. There’s a great bagel truck near here, I could go for lox and cream cheese on sesame. And I’m gonna grab a donut the next place I see that does a donut. You wanna walk a little more or go home?”

James smiles a little, looks Steve up and down.

“I could walk,” he says, and Steve smiles, offers his arm.

“A’right,” he says. “Let’s go.”

***

They retrace their steps and go back to the water. They walk along the water until they get to Pier One, and James looks at the bridge. Steve sees him looking and, arm in arm, pulls him a little closer.

“If it’s okay with you,” he says quietly, his mouth not turned down at the corners but not turned up either, “I don’t think I’m up to it.”

James shakes his head a little, rubs his free palm over Steve’s bicep.

“That’s okay,” he says, because that wasn’t his plan anyway. “That’s okay.”

Steve nods minutely and they walk slowly. New York isn’t a quiet place but Sundays mornings are quieter than every other day of the week. 

“You’re” he says, “right about the other stuff, too,” and James looks at him.

Steve’s got a little dark line of consternation between his eyebrows, and James would smooth it away with his thumb if they were at home. 

“Which other stuff?” James asks, and Steve looks pained, staring out at the water as they go step by step. 

"The money," Steve answers. "And the putting you on a pedestal."

James feels his own mouth twist, tries not to wince too obviously.

“Yeah,” he sighs.

“Fair warning, I love you more than anything so I’m gonna spend money on you. And I think you’re wonderful, so there’s no helping that but…” he narrows his eyes, and then he nods at the bridge. “What you said up there was right, more or less. There’s a big part of me believes in fair exchange. You know?” He looks at James. “Like, you make me feel happy and better and safe, and I want to shower you in everything your heart desires. But I also recognize the other thing you said, which is how I hate that in return. And why. And why that could apply to you too.”

James blinks, and Steve stops, takes his arm from James’ and takes James’ hands in his own instead. 

“You said you have everything you need,” he says. “So do I. I want you to have the things you want because I love you, so do you, because you love me. I’m in a position to pay off your parents’ mortgage, your sister’s college tuition, your student loan repayments. I’m hoping one day you’ll let me. I wanna put your whole family on my medical plan, and I’m hoping someday you’ll let me. I want to buy you a big, shiny black baby grand and put it in the conversion between the dining table and the TV room. That’s what I want. But if you bought me six different easels or a set of oils or…” he shakes his head, looks around eyebrows raised. “I don’t even know, but something, anything, I’d be mortified. I understand that, I do. I know it doesn’t make sense.”

“This doesn’t sound like a compromise,” James says, but he tries to say it with humor, and Steve laughs softly, so he thinks he’s succeeded.

“You might not turn me around on the piano, I love music. I love you. I’d want us to have a piano if you’d use it - maybe you could teach me, how bout it?”

“We’ll discuss it,” James says, biting back a smile, and Steve’s expression is warm, hopeful. 

“I get it,” he says. “I’m a fuckin’ millionaire in a world where millionaires shouldn’t exist, I get it.”

That, of course, is why he doesn't keep most of it, James knows. Steve’s paid off the ridiculous _part_ -mortgage on the warehouse, because Tony Stark paid most of that in the first place. Most of what Steve owns was bought for him - James wonders how long it took him to accept them as his own to start with. The rest, that he’s not eating, or paying bills with (not that there’s much by way of energy bills, also courtesy of - like an increasing number of homes around the world - Stark technology), doesn’t stick around for long. He’s got the bike, the car, he has clothes and James never sees him buy new ones, but Steve doesn’t spend. Not really. In fact, the only times James has really seen him spend what he’s got is when it’s _on James._ The rest of the time he feeds it back into Helping Hands First and the VA and helping keep shows like Sesame Street on the air, and small businesses in small boroughs, health insurance for a certain few people Steve just happens to know need money they don’t have. Youth programs here and in other places, subsidies sometimes when he sees a kid in the news who needs a little help. He’ll pay $25 for a lemonade he doesn’t need at a stand he’ll plan to pass twice more in a day - Steve’s generous to a fault but James is aware of why.

Steve has been all of those people. Sick, ignored, poor, desperate. And he’s got what he needs, so he distributes the rest. 

“But sometimes I wanna treat you,” he’s saying, and James searches his face. “And it makes me a little ill that my bank account ain’t gonna miss what a baby grand costs but there it is.”

“I don’t care how much you own,” James says. “I don’t want a yacht or a mansion, I don’t need to travel around the world, I don’t want to know what every different cuisine tastes like.”

“I want us to have a joint bank account,” Steve says, and _years_ of woke social media posts set off a siren in James’ head. One of those 1920s car ones, motorized - _AWOOGA! AWOOGA!_ “No, hey,” Steve continues, and James can feel how wide his eyes have gone. “No, I mean, I keep mine, you keep yours, we share a third. You know? I don’t- James, I don’t want access to your money-”

Oh. Right, of course Steve wouldn’t be trying to drain his bank account.

“Yeah, but,” James says, and Steve tightens his hold on James. 

“Just buy yourself a coffee sometimes. You know? If you see a jacket you like, you get it. No? Just to ease my suffering-”

“I can afford that stuff myself!” James says, trying not to laugh, but he searches Steve’s face.

Steve looks worried, bless him. James takes a deep breath.

“If we did,” he says, “and I sometimes bought a coffee to ease your depressed Depression ass-”

“Hey, my ass is-”

“-then I'd put in too, right?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says, face a little more open - hopeful. 

“And when we, I don’t know, break the bed,” Steve’s face twitches, “we buy a new one from that, right? You want a TV for the bedroom, that’s how we buy one, right? I contribute, you contribute.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods, and some of the tension seems to leave his shoulders. “Yeah, together. Like-” and then his mouth drops open and his face does something funny. “Like a couple,” he says, nodding as he leans down a little. 

Like ‘duh’ but with more of a history behind it. Like ‘exactly’ but with a side of anxiety. 

Like _please_.

James chews his lip.

“Then,” he says, and Steve is staring at him very intently, “sometimes _I_ get to treat _you._ Sometimes _I_ get to take _you_ places and buy _you_ things. Make _you_ horrified and happy at the same time. Deal?”

“Deal,” Steve rasps, nodding a lot.

“Okay,” James nods, and Steve takes a breath that looks like he’s still expecting a ‘no,’ and then smiles, blindingly.

“Okay,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “And-”

“If I _ever_ ,” James interrupts, _“ever_ agree to something as balls-out- _nuts_ -”

“Something _what?”_

“-as a _baby grand piano in your living room_ -”

“Our living room,” Steve says earnestly, squeezing James’ fingers, “our living room, sweetheart-”

“-our living room,” James amends, “then it will _definitely_ be _at least_ second hand _AND-!”_ and he has to let go of one of Steve’s hands so he can hold his own up and stop him because Steve is definitely about to jump in. “And we will _definitely_ have had a better discussion about it than a worried exchange in a park on a freezing Sunday morning. And I will _definitely_ have agreed to it in advance myself, same goes for all the _ridiculous_ other stuff. Explicit agreement, no surprises.”

“Is ‘explicit agreement’ how we break the bed?” Steve asks, and James gives him a _look._ “Alright,” Steve says. “I promise.” And then he sighs. “I promise. But, but same for me. Okay?”

“What in hell do you think I’m planning?” James laughs, but he nods all the same. “Yeah, mutual agreement.”

And then he holds his free hand out for a shake. Steve shakes it, still holding his other one, and then pulls him in for a hug.

“I’m sorry I’m a mess,” he says, and James pokes him in the side, what he says next muffled by Steve’s shoulder.

“Badmouth my favorite person again and I’ll set my boyfriend on you.”

“You want me to do _what_ to myself?” Steve asks, but he asks in his suggestive voice and James gets a bunch of images in his head at once of what, precisely, Steve could do to himself for James’ entertainment.

“That’s a separate set of negotiations,” James says, and pulls back to look at Steve. 

Steve cups James’ elbows in his hands, searches his face, and then looks around the park. There are people here - he can’t kiss James. But he wants to, James can see it, and James would like to kiss him back. 

Hmm.

“And stop putting me on a pedestal,” James says, but Steve laughs. 

“Would I have made you share a bed with me after Mexican if you were on a pedestal?” Steve answers.

James could tell him nobody would ever have to _make_ him share a bed with Steve, but he chooses instead to nod thoughtfully.

“Alright, I concede,” he says, and Steve snorts, turns away again so he can link their arms once more. 

“I love you,” he says. “I’m gonna try. I promise, I’m gonna try.”

“I know,” James says, smiling a little as they set off again. “And I love you too.”

***

They’re on their way home, not too much later, through a small tunnel of bare trees, the wind picking up as the Sun’s watery light bounces back off literally everything to blind them, thanks Sun, when James looks at Steve.

They’ve been quiet for a little bit, aside from Steve pointing some things out, and that five minutes where they bought coffee from a vendor - James paid, and he didn’t punch the air but he punched the air internally - but Steve…

Steve doesn’t look sad. He looks neutral, and James knows there’s nobody in the vicinity ‘cause he keeps and eye and an ear out at all times. But he’s been thinking for a while - for a few hours actually - something that he usually doesn’t consider. But then again, it’s hard not to think of it when comfort can only be offered in private. When they need a notebook on the table to share a meal anywhere but their home. 

“Steve,” James says, and Steve, turns his head to look at him as they amble along.

“Mmh, yeah?”

He looks happier. He’s not as guarded, he’s not as tense - the discomfort and sadness are leaving him, and James is glad for it.

“Do you regret,” he says very carefully, “that we’re not out?”

And Steve takes a long, slow breath in through his nose, eyes shifting, searching the naked canopy over their heads before they narrow in a startlingly beautiful display of his totally incredible eyelashes. If James ever manages to convince Steve to put on mascara, he’s pretty sure world peace will erupt in like…seconds.

“Only for the mushy stuff,” Steve answers eventually. “You know. I can’t hold your hand. We can’t kiss on a park bench. We don’t do the mundane domestic shit, you know? But I can live without hand-holding in the cereal section, honey, don’t worry about it.”

James smiles a little, and they go back to walking in silence. There are a lot of things he feels about it, now that he’s thinking about it, but he’s surprised to find that worry is definitely not one of them.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and Steve gives him a nice soft smile while they walk through the trees.

Alright then.

***

Steve gets cold eventually. James is a little surprised, but not entirely - it’s probably a mix of things that’s done it. The weather, of course, the night he’s had, the still-evident emotional exhaustion. Though Steve’s smiling, it’s subdued. Though he’s happier now, he’s not well again yet.

“Hey,” James says as Steve is mid-apology for their having to go home, “all this is a part of you, right? It sucks that you’re sad and you didn’t get much sleep, but I love you anyway.”

Steve’s lopsided smile of gratitude is so heartfelt, and so pained, James wants to grab his face and kiss him right there. As it is, he manages to wait until they get home. For a couple of very interesting seconds, Steve’s _all over him_ , but seems to calm a little once he’s had his affection reaffirmed, although Steve _is_ cold. Still, James knows all the ways to get him back up to temp. He makes coffee, he warms the basically-untouched Italian, he recruits the TV section cushions and blankets and stations them in the reading section instead. 

“Right there,” Steve tells him as James gets under the blanket and into the couch nest, and James looks in the direction Steve’s looking. 

“What?” he says.

“Between the dining table and the TV room,” he says, “You know, late at night…When it's dark and cold?”

“No,” James says, but he’s smiling. “I’ve got _you_ to hold, ask me again for Christmas.”

“Christmas is a whole year away!” Steve says, but he says it quietly, like he’s saying it to himself.

James lets them sit in silence for a couple of minutes while Steve gets comfortable, but there’s one more thing - just one - that he needs before they can move past this. 

"Steve?” he says, and Steve’s head moves a little.

“Mmh?”

James takes a breath and figures he might as well come right out and say it.

“What should I do when you have a thing?"

"An episode," Steve says. "Yeah."

And then they sit in silence for a little bit longer.

"If I'm coherent," he says eventually, "what you did yesterday was perfect. You did everything right."

"Except set you off," James says, and Steve tuts.

"LED Christmas lights set me off, sweetheart," he says. "It happens almost every year."

Huh. James didn't know that.

"I didn't know that," he says, a little annoyed, and Steve rests his head against James’ shoulder. 

"It didn't occur to me to say," he says. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Certain songs in French do it, too, a couple songs that used to play on the wireless. Radio. They're not usually an issue but they happen."

"We'll write a list," James says, and he hears the shift of hair on fabric as Steve nods.

"Okay," he says. "We'll write a list. But you did everything right to help me yesterday. Same as at your house at Christmas - you and your parents were amazing with me."

James rubs his hand over Steve's thigh.

"And if you're not coherent?"

"That's actually really easy," Steve answers. "Yell 'Bambi' and/or 'Jarvis,' and then 'help' - the system's programmed to recognize the words together wherever it hears 'em - your phone, my phone, the in-house system, my beeper - and will relay instructions. I'll ask Jarvis to set up a simulation next time we're in the tower, we can give it a run through. Okay?"

James nods.

"Okay," he says, because they'll have their phones on them. "What if we don't have our phones or something?"

Steve shrugs, the movement shifts James.

"Yell for someone to call nine-one-one," he says. 

James takes a deep breath in through his nose and lets it out slowly. 

"Okay," he says. "And if you're being a dick…"

"Yeah," he says. "Hold it against me until I grovel."

"Ooh," James says softly, twisting, reaching out for him. "I kinda like the idea of you grovelling."

Steve snorts and he lets himself be pulled into James’ side.

James tugs him closer with his arm (laughably ineffectually) around Steve’s massive shoulders, and Steve just sinks down until his head is against James’ chest, turning to slide his arm over James’ stomach. James doesn’t really forget how small Steve can make himself, it’s just more sort of that he rarely sees it. 

“That’s right, baby,” he says softly, because maybe he doesn’t see it because Steve feels self-conscious about it. “You snuggle in, huh?”

Steve presses his face to the side of James’ ribcage and nods slowly, sighs long and warm through James’ clothes when James sinks his other hand’s fingers into Steve’s hair.

“I’m…” he says, his voice low and, for a moment, James thinks all that work might undone, thinks Steve is going to say something dumbass like he’s sorry for last night. But Steve presses close and pulls his body in against James’. “…Glad you’re here,” he says softly, and James tucks his chin down as much as he can and kisses the top of Steve’s head, where his hair is still cool from the outside.

“Glad we both are,” he says, and if Steve dozes for the rest of the morning, if James dozes with him, what does it matter?

***

"I'd like," Steve says, and James doesn't often hear him nervous, but he sounds a little nervous now, "for James to sit in today. If…that's alright? Just to make sure I'm on track, you know? That, uh, that I don't miss anything with you that James and I agreed to talk about together."

 _"That's fine,"_ Dr Singh says on the TV screen, in the middle of their living room. _"That's good, actually. It's nice to meet you, James. Steve, why don't you tell me why you're talking to me today?"_

Things aren’t all right, neither of them will ever be perfect people, Steve will never be ‘cured’ because that’s not how this works. But James will love him anyway, and they’re headed in a better direction now. 

And isn’t that worth just as much?

**Author's Note:**

> This is the one where They Learn A Lesson, and I’m hoping it’ll be a turning point for them. I wanted to address a couple of the issues raised in this installment, because I know that they’d need to be addressed in a real relationship. I’m also wanted to address guilt and reaction, without apportioning blame, because I don’t feel blame is appropriate in this situation. Depending on how good a job I’ve done, hopefully you guys agree. Thanks for sticking with me! 
> 
> As for info: 
> 
> When they come back from the walk on the riverside, Steve points at the gap between the dining table and the TV section and says _“Late at night…When it’s dark and cold…”_ which are the opening lines to Billy Joel’s _’Baby Grand.’_ The song is named for a Baby Grand piano, (about which Joel and Ray Charles are singing on the track), which is what Steve wants to buy for James, and the next lines are _“I reach out/for someone to hold,”_ hence James’ reply.
> 
> I LEARNED RECENTLY HOW COOL IS THIS, that on British hospital forms at least, there's often still a section with lines on marked ADDRESSOGRAPH that will be automatically filled by the system later!! I pointed it out like "omg look the thing I learned" so now y'all know too.
> 
> **Also, don't read this next part if you're squeamish about teeth:**  
>  The myth about dogtags is that the notch in them was so that, upon a soldier's death, the notch could be placed between their front teeth and kicked into place, so that the tag would be hard to remove and the body would be thus easily identifiable. It is not true. The notch was for the addressograph.
> 
> If y'all liked this and would like me to write something for you, I've got a tumblr where my information is available


End file.
